


nothing I can put my heart and soul into

by elizabethelizabeth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23521636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth
Summary: Aziraphale exits the Bentley, and Crowley drives away. His heart lurches in his chest, mimicking the slosh of holy water in the thermos that sits in the passenger seat.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 111





	nothing I can put my heart and soul into

**Author's Note:**

> please mind the tags! <3 
> 
> title from the Beach Boys "I Just Wasn't Made For These Times" which is, uhhhh, a Huge Crowley Song
> 
> beta read by the fantastic dragon_with_a_teacup

Crowley’s heart lurches in his chest, mimicking the slosh of holy water in the thermos that sits in the passenger seat. Crowley does not slow to the speed limit as he drives, reckless and relentless, towards his flat in Mayfair. He does not hold the thermos in his lap to keep it sealed. He will continue as long as he likes in his journey of forgoing his physical wellbeing. If the car crashes as he takes another too-fast left turn, so be it. If the thermos breaks as he stops too-closely at a red light, so be it. If his skin burns and breaks, if his heart continues to ache, if he ceases to exist after this point, so be it.

None of those things happen. Crowley makes it safely to his flat; the same cannot be said for the frightened pedestrians and drivers who came across Crowley on his downward spiral of self-inflicted pain. Crowley can’t even pretend to be disappointed. He holds onto the thermos a little too tightly as the lift makes it way up to his front door, digging his nails into the metal and rubber, hoping that a seam splits or the metal ruptures. 

He looks down at the thermos. Crowley hasn’t even marred the tartan cover; it’s as pristine as when Aziraphale carefully handed it to Crowley an hour ago. Maybe if he manifested his claws?

The lift goes to a floor number not listed on its chrome interior, as it always does when there’s a demon using it.

Crowley walks to his flat blindly, never taking his eyes off of the thermos. It is tartan shame; manifested proof that if there were any care in Aziraphale for Crowley at all, throughout their history, it is gone now. 

_ I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go. _

The door to Crowley’s flat on an impossible floor opens up with barely a thought from its owner and closes behind Crowley in the same manner. The thermos looks wrong on Crowley’s desk, glowing in the light with an inherent holiness that Crowley supposes comes from being in close contact with the angel.

If only it were that easy to grasp onto grace and glow with it so easily.

_ Can I drop you anywhere? _

There must have been an ulterior motive. It took the angel one hundred and five years to agree to Crowley’s request. Why now? What happened between then and now to change Aziraphale’s stubborn mind? 

_ That’s not what I want it for. _

It had been the truth, then. Crowley’s not so sure now.

He slumps into his desk chair. He stares at the thermos, wonders at its contents, marvels at the care with which Aziraphale handled it, and compares it to his own carelessness and disdain.

He wanted it for safety. He’s going to keep it safe.

With a thought, there is a safe behind the Da Vinci sketch, and a secondary thought sets the code. 4004. Crowley grips the thermos once, tightly, wonders how fast he’d burn from the inside out if he swallowed it down—

“None of that,” Crowley hisses, and he slams the safe close, the thermos inside it. He twists the lock aggressively and is back to his desk in an instant.

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley. _

What is slow, then? Is it slower than their dance, this careful waltz of an Arrangement they’ve been performing for millennia? Aziraphale has been leading them for years, setting the conditions, performing at his level. Crowley follows too well and too desperate to do anything but perform to Aziraphale’s standards.

It’s not enough. He spun too fast out of Aziraphale’s orbit, and Aziraphale had let him go.

_ You go too fast for me… _

Crowley knows fast, and whatever speed he’s been moving at for the last innumerable decades, it’s not fast. Crowley drives fast, moves quickly, pounces from feeling to feeling like he’s striking prey. He’s fast and flash and lightning-quick, but he’s been frozen in Aziraphale’s sights. Stiff and arrested by gazes that hold meaning Crowley can’t decipher. He’s been at Aziraphale’s whims and wants for years, for forever. 

_ You go too fast… _

“Fuck,” Crowley swears and tears at his clothing, but only enough to get his cock free of its confines. He hates himself for it; he hates that he’s hard at merely  _ remembering  _ Aziraphale’s expression and the brightness of his blue eyes in the red  _ TEASE _ light from the pavement. He hates how affected he is from proximity to the angel; how easily he’d sink his teeth into the morsels of affection and friendship and closeness that Aziraphale rarely offers. He hates how much he loves the angel and how much it’s the very thing that’s keeping him grounded.

Crowley spits into his palm before he touches himself, grips himself to punishing standards. There’s no softness here, there’s no dancing around the issue. Crowley has a goal, a want a need a desire an ache in the depths of his body. Tossing off won’t help, but it’ll feel better than wallowing. 

When Crowley gets off to forlorn thoughts of Aziraphale, he doesn’t picture the angel in any sort of compromising position or in any similar states that Crowley increasingly finds himself in. It's the details: eyes and hair and lips and tongue and hands and feet and books and bow ties and wineglass stems and the subtle shifts in expression and everything that makes Aziraphale  _ Aziraphale.  _ Crowley thrusts his hips into his hand and doesn't imagine Aziraphale is on the receiving end or looking wantonly at Crowley’s exhibitions or participating in Crowley’s shame. He only pictures Aziraphale as he is in Crowley’s life.

_ Too fast… _

The orgasm is violent when it finally rips through Crowley, toes curling in his shoes and clutching his chair so tightly it threatens to break. Crowley bends at the waist, lungs searching for punched-out air. There is no afterglow to this. Crowley glances down, sees the proof of his shame covering his fingers and the fabric of his trousers. When he can finally let go of his chair, he snaps the evidence away, but he can’t miracle away his fast-beating heart that longs for an angel who won’t ever reciprocate. 

Crowley heaves a sigh, leans back until his head hits the chair, his throne, his precipice of control over his life. He won’t look at the thermos. He won’t use it. Hell, he hopes he won’t need it, but he’s hardwired to fear for the worst.

Aziraphale had done a brave thing today. Crowley hopes that one day he can match that bravery. 

**Author's Note:**

> you are not alone <3


End file.
